Estate Sale
by Yours Anonymous
Summary: MODERN DAY - After suffering the loss of her dearly beloved father, Christine's friends try to help cheer her up. While out on a drive, she sees a sign for an estate sale at a mysterious address. Intrigued, she and her friends visit a regal mansion where someone lurks in the shadows...
1. Chapter 1

Author's foreword : Based primarily on the original novel by Gaston Leroux (not to be confused with Susan Kay's, 'Phantom') this was a _very_ rudimentary story that started as a daydream one afternoon. I have started and stopped several Phanfic ideas, so if this doesn't satisfy... Well, let's just say I have quite a few more fics hidden up my sleeve.

Make no mistake - this is by no means appropriate for youngsters or for those of the faint of heart. I plan for this fic to progress in such a way that most people will probably find disturbing to say the least. But very satisfying for the avid 'Phan'. Especially if you're a fan of the 'Leroux Erik'.

Don't say I didn't warn you...

And now:

**Estate Sale**

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Christine and her best friends Meg and Raoul were out for a late afternoon drive when Christine saw a sign outside her window, which read:

Estate Sale ~ Antiques

E 666th PL, Lot #666

_What an odd address, _Christine thought to herself; _I wonder who lived there… _

"Hey guys," she said to Raoul and Meg who had been fighting over the radio for the last few minutes, "can we go check that out?"

"Check what?" Both of them answered her at the same time. Sighing, Meg turned in her front seat to look at Christine.

"What'd you see, Chris?"

"That estate sale right over there – hurry, look before we miss it!"

Immediately Meg nudged Raoul's shoulder, telling him to turn. Annoyed, brushing off her hand, he veered off the main road and onto something like a private driveway.

"Women," he muttered under his breath in feigned exasperation.

The driveway was surprisingly made of only dirt like a country road and was sublimely sheltered by rows of tall deciduous trees that lined the path.

Christine appreciated the respite from the hot mid-July sun by closing her eyes and reveling in its coolness.

As their car pulled up to the house, everyone gaped at the structure before them. It was a small but uniquely impressive mansion that had a strange mixture of Gothic and Edwardian architectural styles.

Raoul parked and the three of them exited the car, standing in front of the house still staring at it.

From inside the house, hiding from view behind a curtain, a figure clad in black gazed out the window at the newest arrivals, a corner of his lips quirked upwards into a devilish smirk.

Down below, the three friends entered the open house, following the signs and arrows marking the areas that were permitted to visitors.

The interior was opulently furnished with all the trimmings and furniture you would likely expect to be in one of those period BBC dramas.

Plush, vibrant oriental rugs covered gleaming all-wooden floors and in the formal living room there were shelves and shelves lined with a priceless collection of leather bound books.

A massive globe stood in one corner; it's surface hand painted exquisitely and looked more like a piece of art than merely a map of the world.

In another area was a dining room fit for a royal family! A whole set of the most expensive and exotic looking porcelain dishes – rimmed with what looked like real gold – and flatware that was undoubtedly pure sterling silver.

A charming bone china tea set was out on display in a warm-colored sitting room, a playful pattern of butterflies were hand-etched into the china.

"Finding everything to your liking, mademoiselle?"

Christine's head jerked up out of her quiet contemplation towards a middle-aged man wearing a modest business suit.

He smiled politely at her, showing rows of teeth yellowed with age, his eyes twinkling brightly.

Laughing nervously, she figured this must the organizer of this sale and decided to ask the question at the forefront of her mind.

"What was the owner like?" She couldn't help herself. She had never been inside such a breathtakingly beautiful home.

"Ah, yes," he cleared his throat, "the _owner _of this estate was a very…particular man, with very particular tastes."

He stopped, his eyes searching around the room for a moment.

"He was a patron of all the arts… He also traveled quite extensively," the man smiled again as if apologizing for that fact.

"He must have lived a very full life," Christine replied somberly, the idea of such a wondrous man being lost forever to the world was painful to think on.

The man seemed to sense her discomfort and came a step towards her, clasping her hands comfortingly in his for a moment before he letting them go. He smiled a most reassuring smile.

"Would you care to see the rest of the house? You may go anywhere you wish, and if you need any assistance, please don't hesitate to ask."

Christine smiled graciously at the man, nodding her thanks of his small kindness and proceeded up the grand staircase unaccompanied to the floors above.

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He perceived her presence before he could see her willowy form as she gracefully ascended the stairs towards his hiding place.

It was the most ridiculous game of cat and mouse he'd ever deigned to play, yet here he was, traipsing about like a ghost – in _his _house – spying on the loveliest creature he'd ever laid eyes upon.

She was adorable! Peeking into rooms and poking around like a naughty little thing, which made it unbearable to repress the chuckle that threatened to bubble up like a spring.

Her soft, layered platinum hairstyle framed her face angelically, the ends gently brushing her shoulders. The creamy white of her skin complimented her crystal blue eyes nicely, those heavenly pools framed by dark, winsome eyelashes.

He could guess that she was of middle height, perhaps on the tall side for a woman, but that was inconsequential since he towered over most at nearly five inches over six feet.

Her upright posture indicated that she was disciplined in either singing or dance, or both, since the girl she had come with was most definitely a dancer.

Forcing himself not to be overeager to spy on her, he brought out his mobile and inadvertently sent a devilishly delicious text; the next part of his game.

She practically jumped out of her skin when her phone suddenly vibrated! Having remembered which century she was in after loosing herself in room after room of priceless antiques, she dug her cell phone out of her purse.

**Unknown**: Enjoying yourself, _mademoiselle_?

Her blood ran cold. It had to be that man playing tricks on her! Immediately, she responded with a still-polite but terse reply.

**Christine**: Sorry, but, who is this?

Instantly she received a reply.

**Unknown**: Certainly not who you think I am, I assure you.

**Christine**: Then WHO ARE YOU?

With that kind of response, he couldn't hold back his chuckle – obviously she was more than a little surprised by his impromptu chat.

**Unknown**: No one to fear. You will meet me soon enough…

He was standing right behind her in the two-way mirror and she didn't even know it! Only he could see her while she blissfully remained in ignorance.

When she didn't text back, he decided to giver her a little push.

**Unknown**: Christine, I am your Angel of Music!

That did it! She ran out of the room, practically flew down the stairs and almost collided with the man whom she had previously spoken to.

"Mademoiselle! Are you all right? You're as white as a sheet!"

She ran past him and out of the house, opened the car door and slammed it shut, alarming both Raoul and Meg who were still inside and they rushed outside to see Christine huddled in the back seat of the car, shaking from head to foot!

Meg opened the back seat door and sat down calmly by her friend's side, noting the telltale signs of another episode.

Ever since her father had died, Christine had been frail and weak-willed, seeming to lose herself for hours at a stretch to her grief.

It was understandable after all that, since she and her father had meant the world to each other – two halves of one soul fitting perfectly together – and she had seen the worst of Christine's grief, unlike Raoul who had only just returned from studying abroad.

Meg wrapped her arms around the poor girl's shoulders and calmly asked her what had upset her.

Christine merely handed Meg her cell phone in admonition, her eyes as vacant as they were wide.

"Who sent you these texts?" Meg asked, knowing that her friend never saved anyone's number – unless they input their number for her.

Christine shook her head as Meg read the messages, her face darkening as she read each one.

"Let's go, shall we?" Meg offered cheerily, trying to hide the anger boiling inside her. How _dare _someone toy with her friend, and when she's still grieving no less!

Raoul, who had just stood there, dumbly watching the girls' curious exchange, mouthed his concern to Meg as he started the car. She dismissed him with a stern look that commanded his cooperation.

As they drove off, the 'ghost' peered from his position by the window, gazing languidly after the car.

He had never been so close to her as he had been in those precious few moments before letting her go.

_I will see her again. _

"Yes," he breathed, feeling his heart constrict with all the foolishness of a lovesick schoolboy, "we _will _be seeing her again."

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Christine leaned her head against the window, the blur of traffic and scenery rushing past just like her life. She felt as though she'd been aged in such a short period of time following the death of her beloved father.

No, let's not go down that path…

Once the car finally stopped, she slowly came out from her daze and realized that Meg and Raoul were at present deep in conversation. She didn't need to listen to know whom they were talking about.

If she were going to behave like a deranged mental patient, she would no doubt be treated as one!

Did she secretly wish to be locked away from reality?

When she'd said goodbye and watched as the car drove off into the dim twilight, she almost wished she'd taken Meg up on her offer to stay with her for the night.

Almost.

As much as she needed her friends' support, she also needed her space. She would never be able to just break down and cry in front of Meg or Raoul, not like she did after her father's death.

But the panic attacks…

Maybe she _should_ consider the medication her psychiatrist had recommended.

Maybe it would numb the pain for a few hours…

No.

Her father would have never condoned it and so she certainly wouldn't either.

Feeling a brief rush of resolve wash over her like fake confidence, she walked up the front steps of her aging, lower middle class rambler.

Upon entering the home she had shared another lifetime with her father she let out a long sweet sigh.

"I'm home."

Silly, she knew, but she tried to keep as much of her familial habits as possible. It made her feel at least somewhat normal. Somewhat.

Locking the door behind her she entered the quaint little kitchen with a small wooden table and two chairs, an ancient refrigerator and a retro-looking stove.

The cheery yellow tile back splash wrapped around half the kitchen, the other half was painted a matching creamy yellow that even at night was a comforting sight.

_E 666__th__ PL, Lot #666 _

That address remained branded into her mind. Her father had once told her that a triple six was the Devil's number, and was almost always accompanied by nothing but bad luck.

She had laughed at him then, but she didn't laugh now.

Whoever sent her those texts _knew _her or had at least come in contact with her before.

Going over to the little writing desk in their dark sitting room, she turned on the old computer her father had salvaged from a roadside junk sale.

He had always been so clever with his hands. His violin playing was exquisite, his position as first violin of the local symphony proof of his genius. He was always so handy around the house as well – always fixing and tinkering…

How she missed him.

The screen turned on in the same time it had taken for her to take off her shoes and turn on the floor lamp residing immediately next to the writing desk.

She brought up a search engine and typed in the address, silently praying that the internet wouldn't cut out before it loaded the first few results.

There!

Clicking a link to Google Maps or whatever it was called, her eyes fervently scanned the webpage for the exact location of the address. Finding it, she entered in her own address up at the top to map out the distance between them.

Five miles.

That was the distance separating her from whatever it was she had encountered in that house. Or whomever had been _living_ in that house.

Whoever it was could probably run that distance! Her head dropped to her folded arms atop the desk in despair. Should she get help? Would anyone even believe her? Or would they think she was just an over paranoid little girl suffering from grief at the loss of her dear father…

She didn't want to think anymore, she just wanted to sleep. Feeling a nice hot shower would do her good; she sluggishly made her way upstairs, turning on all the lights as she went.

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It had been simple enough for him to find her pathetically small dwelling with the GPS tracking device that old doddering fool had so reluctantly placed on her sleeve. Well, at least he had been capable of at least that.

After substantially paying off his accomplice, he took down the sign and the ropes around the house, returning everything to how it had been.

Excitement fired through his veins, at last! His plans for Christine Daae were underway!

He felt so giddy he nearly tripped down the stairs leading into the garage.

Whistling a sharp, upbeat little tune, the car door silently swung upwards to allow his lofty frame to glide effortlessly into the driver's seat. A design he had very much appreciated.

Zooming down the street, he uttered her address out loud, the screen on the dashboard panel automatically inputting Christine's house number and street.

A holographic map was brought up on his side of the front window, the route playing itself out in realtime. He would be there in seconds.

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Christine dallied in her shower much longer than she intended, fresh tears washing away along with the hot steamy water cascading down her face. It was in these moments that she did not have to put up a brave front, that she could simply dissolve into her pain.

If someone _was_ stalking her, she wouldn't have cared for these precious moments, deciding instead to remove herself completely from the mundane aspects of reality.

It wasn't until all the hot water had run out that she finally left the warm confines of the bathroom.

Toweling herself dry and slipping into her well worn bathrobe and nightgown, she returned downstairs to fix herself something to eat.

As she opened the fridge, revealing its shocking sparseness, she decided on a light cup of soup from the pantry, opening up a can of tomato bisque as carefully as her injury prone finger could and emptying half of its contents into a coffee mug.

Wrapping the top with plastic, she shoved it into the microwave as if wanting to forget about it entirely, and pressed the flimsy number pad for a minute. The familiar chime rang and the rumble of the plate going around on its carousel soothed her.

Sitting down in her father's favorite chair, she took the remote from its residence on the coffee table beside her and pressed the 'on' button.

Static ensued and she had to rush out of the cozy recliner to turn down the blaring distortion and switch it to cable. Had she watched a movie the last night?

Unable to remember and unwilling to force herself to think any more on it, the microwave dinged, signaling that her food was done.

Letting out a huff of indifference, she commandeered a spoon from the dishwasher and retrieved her mug of soup, retreating once again into her father's chair.

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He parked the car around the back by some bushes, not wanting to create any sort of alarm. Hidden in shadows he had spent most of his life and in shadows he would at last find some modicum of happiness.

Gathering his toolkit from the backseat, he languorously slid out of the car and sauntered fiendishly towards the double doors, which led into the basement.

Oh, how he loved these little old houses!

So _typical, _and his Christine was anything but.

He had to stop himself from whistling in his overly cheery state, the knowledge that his love would be in his very arms tonight was making it rather difficult to contain his glee.

But she did not know him.

_What does it matter? _He thought. _She will know me very soon… _

With that, he effortlessly picked the lock and deftly jumped down into Christine's basement.

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Earthquakes. Hurricanes. A young boy shot in the crossfire between a gang and the police. A mother abandons her three month old in a sweltering SUV and a man guns down several people at a coffee shop.

The world was mad.

Eventually she grew tired of the ridiculously inappropriate shifts in the news and turned on the travel channel. Where in the world would the show's sprightly host go to today?

After an hour's program on Turkey and a brief history Istanbul, she retired upstairs to her bedroom to get ready for bed.

Once making the rounds of all the windows and doors – her father had always said you can't be too careful – she turned off the lights one by one. She had never been able to completely quell her fear of the dark…

Tucking herself in under the soft cool sheets, she breathed in the comforting scent of her room, the window cracked open just enough to admit the fresh night air. She felt safe and relaxed.

As she began to nod off into sleep, she caught a glimpse of a crimson red rose, proudly leaning against the rim of the glass vase.

Meg perhaps? Or possibly Raoul, wanting to cheer her up in any way he could.

She sighed, not wanting to think the opposite.

Finally drifting off into a pleasant slumber, a shadow that did not conform with the rest separated itself from the wall.

Two amber eyes glowed golden in their intense gaze at the innocent girl.

_Tonight, she will be mine. _

_Tonight, she will be Erik's!  
><em>

_. . . _

Note: The next chapter will be posted IF there are enough positive reviews to warrant a continuation, so if you enjoyed this first chapter then make sure you review!

Obediently yours,

Yours Anonymous


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: I apologize for the long break! Birthdays and holidays run rampant this time of year and it is only now that I am finally able to write. A little overview of this chapter - there are some heavy Kay elements in this primarily to tell Erik's background and how he came to be in modern time. Well, not yet, but we'll get there. **

**Enjoy!**

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Chapter II

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I always knew that I had been born in the wrong time.

Though I was only a product of my parent's marriage bed, as were all the babies conceived in that time, I knew from the moment I drew my first breath that I was not _normal. _

A monster, indeed!

During my life, I had succeeded many times to live up to the name that the _human race _had dubbed me.

_Monster. _

Do you know how many _normal _men have committed a great deal more atrocities than I?

Have you seen with your own eyes the very pinnacle of evil in mankind?

Have you experienced the incredible rush of relief and power when you realize that you can and will defend your own life – even at the cost of another's?

No. You haven't.

You have not and will not know what _I _have known throughout my life.

You can never understand what it means to live as I have lived…

But I digress.

I was born the night of Christmas Eve, 1831. Ironic, isn't it? I always thought so, too. My parents were Catholic and apparently much happier before I came along.

They were a perfect match in a perfect world reserved only for the nobility.

How I hated them.

As the first heir in the Chagny bloodline, my mother's pregnancy was heralded as the 'most joyous of events'. If I had been born with a _normal_ appearance, I would have been spoiled and smothered with more affection than the Shah of Persia!

My gender must have saved me from being disposed of altogether.

It didn't, however, keep my parents from throwing me into the deepest, darkest recess of their opulent chateau!

If they hadn't been so religious, I daresay they would not have supplied me with a wet nurse. It wasn't too hard to find some poor strumpet on the streets of Paris who had been unlucky one too many times…

Her name was Whilma.

She was an illegal immigrant from Denmark. More like she was dragged into Europe by slave traders.

When she managed to escape, she had encountered my father – of all people – who had promised her protection on his estate. She didn't last a week before his advances got her dismissed.

With nowhere to go and no employment to be found out in the countryside, she traveled to Paris, her belly swelling up with my father's bastard along the way.

In Paris, she found work at various inns and pubs as waitress and maid, but when she gave birth she found that unwed mothers were not very welcome.

A shame the child only lived to open its eyes.

Desperate, she swallowed her pride and joined the first brothel that would take her in.

Soon she had half the nobility between her legs.

That was how my father found her again. This time he said her position at his home would be permanent.

It turned out to be the truth.

She nursed me and played with me and even sang songs of her homeland in that cellar room. Only when I was called upstairs - on very rare occasions – did I have to wear the mask.

I can only guess that life had made her the strong woman she was.

But it didn't take me too long to understand that she was also my jailer.

Then it was all I could think about; that I was being kept prisoner and this woman was all that stood between me and freedom.

Ah, yes… The pure pleasure of that first taste of freedom that is so perfect and so divine, well, you would do _anything _for it!

Picking locks on doors seemed to be instinctual for me, and so my first nocturnal exploration of…the remainder of my home is still one of my most cherished memories.

By the time I was found out, I had been exploring the grounds and the nearby village for years! You could say I wanted to get caught – just once – if only to see the looks on their faces at my…talents.

Poor Whilma was beaten for my exploits, and if I had known that that was the way of the gentry, I would have devised a plan for her escape.

After my fifth birthday (or when I thought was my birthday) good old Whilma was relieved of her duties to me and transferred back into the service as one of my mother's personal maids.

The injustice!

Now that I was completely on my own and seemingly rotting away my life in a padded cell, I decided to run away.

Little did I know of the world, and little did I know of the diabolical nature of men.

Really?

You want to know more of my horror story?

What a brave little lamb you are…

I was caught by a band of gypsy rogues. They tied me up and only let me out to parade me through their circus thoroughfare.

Ridiculous, I know. But it happens.

It was not until they learnt of my _other _little gift of song that they stopped dragging me across my filthy cage. Then I got a bit smarter and would refuse to perform unless I was treated with a scrap of decency.

I had been raised to aspire to the saying that 'cleanliness is next to godliness' and so most of my life I had spent well kempt and well dressed. Even as a five-year-old upstart I could not fathom being treated as an animal.

And I would never be treated as such again.

My reputation for my voice and other accomplishments – such as magic tricks and odd inventions, as well as illusions and escapism – traveled far and wide over the years I spent in the caravan. It was not until shortly before I turned twenty that my performances reached the ears of the Shah of Persia, and when he sent the Daroga of Mazenderan to fetch me, my life would spiral into the darkest years of my existence.

Once you hear the screaming, it never, ever stops.

Torture, blackmail, assassination, execution, extortion, coercion and last but not least; _experimentation_.

During my service to the Shah I committed such atrocities that even I began to have nightmares…

As the Daroga and I had shared the treacherous journey from the jubilant fair of Nijni-Novgorod and he was assigned to 'watch over me', he and I had forged a mutually beneficial arrangement.

During the last phase of building the Shah's pleasure palace, the Daroga was given an order to have me executed for fear of me replicating it for some other ruler. Rather petty, wouldn't you say?

Fortunately the Daroga's sense of moral righteousness overcame his sense of fealty to his king and therefore aided my escape from the Shah's clutches.

Unfortunately, many other rulers had the same propensity as the Shah.

Mon dieu! I should have known!

Ah, well, as soon as I decided to retire from politics my health vastly improved.

A few years passed in the blink of an eye and before I knew it I was well on fifty! After I took up residence at the Opera Populaire in Paris I began to feel my life pleasantly floating by with each morphine injection I took.

I was a mess.

Of course, that Daroga had caught up with me and was also residing in Paris – although in a more conventional abode – and literally _nagged _me out of my poisonous stupor long enough for me to realize what I'd been _missing. _

You see, for every monster, there is a beautiful damsel in distress!

Christine Daae.

All of a sudden, the entirety of my existence bent over backwards for _Christine Daae. _A songbird so great that no one ever suspected – and just what an unhewn jewel she was!

No one – not even myself – gave her the time of day before she was roughly shoved into my consciousness by her well-meaning friend, Meg Giry. Shell shocked, the poor girl could barely sing above a whisper at first due to her nerves, but as she continued to sing her nerves dissipated.

And it was glorious.

And pronouncedly sad at the same time.

This girl had no soul. At least not when she sang. So, my interest piqued, I watched her from the shadows day and night – from every rehearsal to every mundane conversation she had with the other ballet rats.

Over the course of a few days I learned what one might learn in a month! She was the orphan of a modestly famous violinist, who had died just before she entered the Conservatoire (a misguided school of self-important pigs, if you ask me). Once graduated from there she had automatically applied to the Chorus at the Opera Populaire.

She was very shy and reserved and not at all stuck in that all-too common role of the ballet whore. No, she was the absolute most purest thing on this earth – and I would cultivate her talent so that in time she would grow to become the most celebrated soprano of all of Europe.

We were only half way there three months into her tutelage when _that boy _came and ruined everything!

Threatening to relinquish her from my mentorship worked at first, but the stronger the boy's presence became, the more he interfered with my plans.

At last, I had to let her go with him. I had tried everything to keep her with me! But alas, so beauty wants a creature like Erik.

I tempted the Fates, then. Just to see if I had the power to end my own miserable life. The mob came and went, leaving my House a wreck.

As always, the Daroga was quick to snuff out all my hopes and dreams before they would come to fruition. It's not entirely his fault. He was born with a right to dream.

A right to _love._

Does a monster have the right to love?

Does a monster have the right to live?

I fear my darkness attracted the Devil Himself, for he came to me one night while I was in my drugged haze, attempting to numb the emptiness of her absence.

It was not as you would think – the devil coming to you to drive you astray – he asked me what I had to live for.

I couldn't think of anything since _she_ was gone.

Then the devil said to me,

"What would you give to have what you've not?"

Beyond care at this point, I told the devil that I would do _anything _in order to reclaim Christine. It was my one and only wish besides to die.

The devil reached out and grabbed me by my wrist, which was impossibly burning hot, and sealed me with his mark upon my flesh.

The sign of the Eternally Damned.

The devil explained nothing and answered nothing, all but vanishing into thin air!

Exhausted, I quickly finished writing the letter for the Daroga to submit my obituary to the newspapers. The only thing that it would read was:

ERIK IS DEAD.

With that, the candle of my existence would be snuffed out and I would finally have the courage to put an end to my misspent life.

Oh, if only.

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I _thought_ I had overdosed.

Evidently, I did not.

But when I awoke the following morning I found myself…_different._

By different, I mean invincible.

No, I'm not a super hero, nor am I an alien villain from Mars.

I am Erik!

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**Please don't forget to review if you would like me to keep writing. As you all should know - a critic is a writer's greatest inspiration! **

**In good faith,**

**Yours Anonymous**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: It's been a while... More has happened in the month of January than usually happens throughout the year. That being said, please pardon the lateness of this update. so without further adieu...**

III.

The most delicate of eyelashes fluttered open, mimicking almost exactly the graceful movements of a butterfly's wings.

Christine carefully rolled up into a sitting position, her mind groggy and her limbs felt as though they were as limp as a rag doll's. As her vision cleared, she looked about the room in horror; it was not her own…

Struggling to get out from underneath the heavy duvet comforter and what seemed like a whole arsenal of blankets, she fought her way out until she consequently fell off the edge of the bed and onto the hard floor!

"I suppose the little songbird's up," crooned a soft voice unrecognizable to her. It seemed to be coming from the farthest corner of the room, and so she crawled cautiously towards it.

"Tsk, tsk," uttered the voice – this time from a different direction entirely -, "this won't do. This won't do at all."

She heard footsteps echoing off the walls of the cavern-like room. Trying to pinpoint where the footsteps were going, she climbed shakily to her feet and followed.

Outside the room was a narrow descending staircase, or rather more like a tunnel with steps carved into the rough-hewn rock.

With one hand brushing against the wall for some kind of support, the other was holding up the long skirt of her nightgown so as not to trip and potentially fall her way down to the bottom.

Once she reached the end, she couldn't help but gasp at the beautiful splendor of the room before her.

Wide-eyed and entranced she tiptoed over to an elaborately set dining table. It had _everything_, literally everything a girl could ever want for breakfast; a tray of tea things, a colorful array of fresh fruit, varieties of pastries and breads as well as a full accompaniment of preserves, seemingly homemade.

Impressed and intimidated all at once, she shoved her inhibitions aside and drew a gorgeously crafted antique chair and was about to sit when someone pushed her chair in for her. Startled at the sudden gesture of chivalry, she started to turn around when two large, strong hands caught her shoulders.

"Do not turn around, _mademoiselle_," came a ghostly whisper, merely a faint echo of the voice she had heard in her room.

"Who _are_ you?" She cried, "What am I doing here?"

She awaited his reply for what seemed to be an agonizingly long moment, all the while holding her breath. His hands still held her shoulders. Noticing they were covered by what she thought looked like expensive black Italian leather gloves, she briefly wondered for what purpose he wore them _inside the house. _

He drew in a deep breath to steady his nerves and slowly retracted his hold on her. Here he was, with the object of his affections, in his very home. The possibilities were endless; he just had to tailor his response in such a way…

"You are here," he began, "on your father's wishes…"

Christine paled at the mention of her father, her heart feeling as if it dropped to the pit of her stomach.

"Christine," he said as he spun her chair towards him, took hold of her hands and knelt in front of her, his eyes burning into hers from behind the mask.

Shocked, Christine could only stare at him, as dumb as a mute. His liquid amber eyes bore deeply into hers, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"Although we have never met, child, I have watched over you for a very, very long time. I knew your father." His intensity gave way to an awkward sympathetic quirk of his lips.

"H-how," she stuttered, attempting to find some semblance of clarity, "how did you know him?" Her eyes pleaded with his, entreating him for any small consolation.

"We were partners for some time," he stood up and began to pace. At least some of his story would be true. He _had _known Mr. Daae over the course of several decades; they had just never met face-to-face.

"Partners?" Christine asked dully, tilting her head slightly to one side like a doe, her mind still reeling from the confusion of the current situation.

"Yes, partners. I'm a composer, you see. Among a great many other things," he grinned as he spread his arms to indicate the fruits of his labors. Obviously, if he could afford all this…

"I don't even know your name," she confessed, ashamed that her dear father never mentioned someone so seemingly important. Seeing her visibly wilt before his eyes at his admission, he knelt again before her so that he was at eye level. Deftly taking her chin by his gloved forefinger and thumb, he tilted her face upwards so that their eyes met once again.

"Christine," he breathed, "I know this was sudden, but I do have my reasons for bringing you here in such a fashion." He searched her eyes for acknowledgment before continuing.

"First, I must say that you are by no means in any danger here, and that you will never come to harm while in my presence." She nodded in understanding.

"Second, I swore to your father that I would protect you in his stead."

"Third," his voice broke ever so slightly, "that in time my dear, that you might-," he shuddered at the very thought of her becoming his _living bride, _"that you might accept me… as your husband."

Christine felt as if she had been struck a blow to the chest, all the air rushing out of her in one sharp breath as she collapsed inwardly. He grabbed a hold of her before she fell out of her chair, setting her upright as best as he could.

"Fourth, that I am the only one who can make your wildest dreams come true," he finished regally, knowing that if anything this would distract her from his almost-proposal.

She immediately perked up, searching his masked face for any signs of fallacy, finding none. Could she really trust this man who knew her father? Was this the future her father would have wanted for her?

"What do you mean? You seem to know so much about me already… Do you know my heart as well?"

She gazed into his eyes, willing him to admit this whole affair a farce concocted by her friends to make her blow off steam. With tears in her eyes, she reached out for his mask, only to be stopped short as he grabbed her wrists.

To her surprise, he was shaking.

"I don't need to know your heart to know what it is you wish for most in this world," he released her as he stood, crossing the room to the fireplace, resting his arm against the mantle. The light from the fire cast long, unnatural shadows across the room, making him appear more intimidating than before. She shrank back against the back of her chair.

"You have spent the last four years at the Conservatoire, correct?"

The sheer normalcy of the question threw her; she looked up at him questioningly.

"And during all this time, have you ever been given the opportunity to take your place in the limelight?"

Her embarrassed expression gave him his answer. He stalked towards her with all the litheness of an alpha lion, leaning on the armrests over her.

"Has _anyone ever _realized your talent…" he paused to brush a stray hair from her face, "your beauty…"

She froze as he softly stroked her cheek, her mind in shambles. What would happen to her from now on?

Reluctantly, he withdrew his hand and rose to his full height. He sighed audibly and then turned her chair back around to face the table.

"Well, I think that's enough for now, you must be famished," he said emphatically, waving a hand over the table, "Please, eat."

With that, he plopped himself down at the head of the grand table, eyeing her encouragingly although he made no move to take part in the repast. After several moments of fidgeting with her fork, she speared a generous wedge of cantaloupe, taking it into her mouth and chewing as imperceptibly as she could.

.

.

.

After a very awkward breakfast, Christine stood after finishing her tea, ready to flee the room. The trouble was, she wasn't quite sure where the bedroom she had awoken in was, a fact that painted her cheeks a very becoming shade of pink.

Erik seemed to sense her predicament and immediately came to her rescue. Standing abruptly, he proffered his arm, which to his amusement she accepted readily. So far, she was taking things much better than he had anticipated.

Leading her into the adjoining sitting room, he gestured for her to sit on a finely upholstered chaise long, a pretty piece he had acquired at an auction in Versailles. Of course, he had traveled to many countries during his unnatural lifetime and had an extremely unfair amount of luck when it came to getting anything of material value he wanted.

Except for one thing that he held far above any piece of furniture – a wife – someone with whom he could talk to about everything and nothing and take out on Sundays. It seemed ridiculous to him that after all this _time_ he would still harbor a weakness for the opposite sex.

Looking across the room at the lady in question, she was without a doubt the most perfect creature he had ever beheld since _her. _

No, he wouldn't think of that now. Not when he was in this Angel's presence.

How prettily she twisted a lock of hair about her finger in nervous habit, how her lips pouted and her cheeks blushed. She was the picture of perfection. To take her mind off of their conversation prior to breakfast, he ventured in turning her attention to him.

"Christine, are you fond of reading?"

Looking up, their eyes met briefly before she looked away shyly, trying to pretend something had caught her eye.

"It was a favorite pastime of my father," she paused at the painful memory of his sitting by the fire reading her stories of his childhood, "I learned the joy of books from a young age. Even now…" She looked up with tears in her eyes, stubbornly fighting to keep them from falling. Her bottom lip trembled before continuing.

"How did you know my father?"

It was an innocent question and he had already planned the perfect story for her, to both calm her fears and intrigue her simultaneously.

"It was a long time ago. I must confess that I was a very lost young man when we crossed paths," he regarded her to see her sitting up in rapt attention. "I was in the process of finding a competent musician to display my latest work for a very prestigious national competition. I heard him playing the violin in a restaurant I frequented back in Paris. His was the most sublime music I had ever heard."

For a moment their eyes met, and Erik thought he saw something akin to delight at his praise of her father.

"Of course, he would not accept any payment for showcasing my work in the competition, but rather asked me to join him for supper," he chuckled at the obscenity of the older man's intractable kindness. "It was then that I first learned of the human race's capacity for compassion. Obviously we won the competition. Then, after much cajoling, we formed a partnership that ensured us much success."

Overwhelmed by details of a past unknown to her, Christine forced herself not to dwell on the fact that her father was no longer with her and instead decided to listen as if she were hearing the story of a stranger.

"How long did you two…work together?"

Erik's chest swelled at his Christine's timidity. He leaned back in his impressive wingback armchair, gracefully shifting one long lean leg over the other as he folded his hands together.

"For some time. Actually, I'd say a fair estimate would be at least five years. You weren't born yet when I'd first met him, but I did know your mother before you graced the world."

"My mother?" To this Christine was very curious, for she had never been able to get her father to talk about her mother at all.

"Yes… your mother," he said wistfully, recalling in minute detail the close likeness of mother and daughter. Although he thought Christine had inherited her father's gift for music.

"She was a very strong woman. I daresay your father needed some pushing at times – a little jolt back to reality – and your mother was an artist at it." He rose from his chair to move to the grandfather clock that stood impeccably next to an overstuffed bookshelf stacked with manuscripts. Staying still for long periods of time had never suited him, so he started winding up the clock and checking the different mechanisms to make sure they were working properly.

He felt Christine's gaze burn into his back. Evidently this was all new information to her… Perhaps her father hadn't the stomach to tell her after the accident.

"Perhaps it's best to leave it here for today my dear. Go now, get some rest," he pointed at where the wall had suddenly opened to reveal her bedroom on the other side. Relieved, Christine made her exit, pausing behind Erik just for a moment as she willed herself to speak.

"I don't know how I feel about all this," she said, gesturing around the room, "I don't know if it is even right that I should be here, but…" gaining courage, she rose up onto the balls of her feet to place a wary kiss on his masked cheek.

"You seem to know me although I don't remember you – and I'm sorry – but I just want to say thank you. For telling me about my parents."

With that, she exited the room and the wall swung shut behind her.

A solitary tear found its way down Erik's sunken cheek, a testament to the fact that up until now it had been nearly a century and a half since his last kiss.

.

.

.

"Where the _hell_ could she be Meg?!" Raoul demanded passionately over his cell phone.

He had been searching all of Christine's most frequented spots for the past six hours. _Why didn't she tell anyone where on earth she was going?! _ Despite the fact that he wasn't her boyfriend or even her best friend – she always confided more in Meg than she did with him – he was frantically running all over town trying to find her.

The police had been most unhelpful, insinuating that it was probably none of his business where the young lady went. After all, she was a blithe young woman at twenty-two years of age and therefore it was up to her where she came and went!

Frustration ate at him as he ran a nervous hand through his sandy blond hair. _They _didn't know Christine. _They _didn't know that she wouldn't just vanish into thin air to go on an adventure for the weekend.

With a knowing feeling he drove towards the house they had visited only the day before with the curious estate sale. It was minutes before he arrived at the same cross street. However to his dismay – and dread – the sign for the estate sale was gone.

**P.S. - Reviews are the fuel with which this story runs!**

**Humbly,**

**Yours Anonymous**


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